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He left the dodoes to rot, he couldn’t endure to eat their flesh. Usually, he hunted alone. But often, after months of it, the isolation would begin to change him, change his very perceptions— the jagged mountains in full daylight flaring as he watched into freak saffrons, streaming indigos, the sky his glass house, all the island his tulipomania. The voices— he insomniac, southern stars too thick for constellations teeming in faces and creatures of fable less likely than the dodo— spoke the words of sleepers, singly, coupled, in chorus. The rhythms and timbres were Dutch, but made no waking sense. Except that he thought they were warning him . . . scolding, angry that he couldn’t understand.

— Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (1973)

Kenny Wisdom notes: It is probable, if not altogether certain, that Thomas Pynchon has read Hermann Broch, as should we all.

Ethel Waters and Her Jazz Masters “That Da Da Strain” (1922)

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